The Wayward Warrior
by kyesophina
Summary: An attempt to give Boromir some credit. Vignette/moodpiece. It's nice and short.
1. Default Chapter

  
  
  


**The Wayward Warrior**  


**By Kyesophina**  
  
  
  


  
  
It was dry and barren upon the vast stretch of plains. Though he had yet much endurance left, nor would his pride allow him to give-up, the traveler was very weary of wandering. He barely knew where he was going; little was now known of this region back in the lands from which he had come. Many days had passed since the great and long bridgeless river in which he had nearly drowned had robbed him of his horse; his only companion, and perhaps the only hope he had of completing the journey he had taken upon himself. His food ration grew scarce, and it had been long since he passed a source of water. Upon horseback his journey was slow enough, but upon foot there seemed no end in sight.   
  
The nights were cold. All alone he lay upon the dry yellow grass, shivering and hungry and far from sleep; for plagued he was most by a cloud of anxiety that lay upon him as a gloomy mist on a bleak morning. From the far-reaching depths of his mind, despair inched its way forward, seeking in stealth to seize what little hope he had left. He thought of the past. Danger and darkness, violence and terror grew ever greater in his land, consuming the lives of his friends and countrymen and freezing the hearts of the women and children who'd been forced to flee westward to find some meager hope for protection. What irony, he thought, in such a wonderful place. In his homeland, with there the great river bestowed with lush foliage, set against the snow-topped silver mountains to the west. In such a beautiful land ever blessed with warm winds and orange suns, it had long been a cold place to live.   
  
Many a grisly death had he seen upon the eastern fields; and many a heartbreaking destruction had he watched of ancient towers and revered statues - sacred symbols of his heritage. But the hills of blood-stained grass, screams of terror, legions of Orcs and horror of the Black Wraiths, faded into a haze as his mind returned to the present. Here he was, searching, perhaps in vain, for possibly the only hope left to relieve the bleeding wounds of his homeland. He had volunteered to make the journey; for surely only he as an ambassador could interpret such vital counsel to best suit the needs of his dying kingdom. His father was ailing; his despair was steadily and noticeably affecting his war counsels. His brother was too gentle; surely a firm line of representation would be needed in these foreign lands that knew so little of the horrors endured endlessly by his country. They could not maintain such fruitless battles forever. He could not emphasize enough the very desperate need for decisive action. But what would that be? And how? What was the great secret to the weakness of the Enemy? The answer to this question was what he sought. And he would find it in Imladris. He must, before the ancient realm of Gondor, and all memory of its countless years of splendor and glory, was wiped into the Sea.   
  
Fear for his people weighed heavily on him. Could he now save them at last? He lay upon his back and gazed into the deep night as a net of clouds passed overhead, with some hopeful fancy that a sign, clearer than these mystifying riddles and lost Elves hiding in the far corners of the Earth, might be revealed. Soon the clouds passed, revealing a moonless and starry sky. Brighter than all shone the blazing stars that painted Menelgavor, the great Swordsman in the Sky. The traveler gazed up at the great warrior, and suddenly felt strength in his heart anew, and he was comforted. He smiled at the warrior, and cocked his chin in salute, and sleep took him at last.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_   
Disclaimer: All inspiration and credit goes to JRR Tolkien. _


	2. dying thoughts

  
  
  
  


**Dying thoughts**  
  
  


  
  
The traveler lay against the tree waiting for sleep to take him once more. Anguish welled-up from within like water boiling over in a pot left on the fire too long. He had failed. As a soldier, as a man, as a son of Gondor. Never in his life had he such little control of himself. Never had he laid a hand on someone in anger. Even on an enemy. He had always taken special pride in his observance of the rules of war. All the battles he had waged, whether ambitious or prudent, were careful not to step outside the boundaries of their purpose; careful with their treatment of the enemy soldiers. And now he had found himself unfairly attacking the young Halfling, innocent and unarmed.   
  
What had come over him? What had happened to him? "True-hearted men will not be corrupted," he told Frodo. As far as he knew he had always been considered incorruptible. He was a soldier, not a thief. But just then he had served up any lie he could think of to get what he wanted. Like Saruman the traitor, or even worse; the Enemy. Ever since the woods of Lothlorien the Ring had lain upon his mind; haunting his dreams and taunting every waking thought. What had she done to him? The Golden Wood, in all its beauty, unnerved him from the moment he set foot in it. And the Lady! Commanding her little realm of hidden Elves, loathe to do anything but wait for an end. Good end or bad end; whatever end might come, she cared little, he thought.   
  
All the way down the Great River, the scope of his thoughts ever dwindled down to one thing. His people, his family, his honor, had one by one faded into the distance and were eventually shadowed from sight entirely. It consumed his thoughts and his heart until he felt he was watching himself helplessly from without. Until at last he betrayed everyone, including himself.   
  
Perhaps the Wise were right; that Isildur should have destroyed the Ring when he had the chance. But what chance was there for that now? How calm they always were! he thought. And what vain faith they had! That this ludicrous quest would succeed. But what chance had he now? As little as the lost King's words may have seemed, they still brought him great comfort; for the King there was still hope left and destiny unfulfilled. No longer could he as he lay dying help his father and his brother, his soldiers and their families. Perhaps this was his lot. Even if his life were spared, he had been reduced to a crooked peddler, a desperate liar; no better than the Enemy he hated. At last he began to see the true power of the Ring. Shame slowly draped down over traveler, as the shades of night fall over the sun, and sleep took him for the last time.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
